On the Sands
written by:
Naughty Miranda

He came hard... I was still riding the waves of my own third... fourth?... orgasm as I felt his body freeze above me, his cock buried deep inside my cunt, and then my whole world was jolted as he slammed himself in, pumping his seed so hard inside me that I damn near came again. In fact, I did... if not at that precise moment, then just a few seconds later, as he whipped his cock out of my soaking pussy, and pushed his mouth in instead.

He didn't lick, he didn't lap. He sucked, pulling my flesh inside his mouth, wallowing and swallowing the mess he'd shot inside me; he raise his head once, as his fingers stretched me wider, and his face was slicked with our blended juices.

For a moment I was jealous. I love to suck on a freshly fucked cock, draining the last drops of come from the sticky pole, tasting myself on that glistening meat. But to eat a well fucked pussy, knowing that it was you who'd fucked it so well in the first place... to devour the cocktail of cock and tail, filling your belly like you'd filled her cunt. That must be paradise. Guys have all the luck.

But then his head dipped again and his tongue pushed deep inside me, fucking me with its warm, wet thickness, but probing too, as though seeking out the last thick drops of his own come deep inside me. And I swept away those traces of envy as I wrapped my legs around his head, grinding my cunt into his face, begging him to bite me, then to bite me even harder. Feeling my clit as it jarred against his nose, and then his teeth as they found it, and he bit down again.

And this time when I came, I cried out so loud that the answering screech of the startled seagulls made me glad that the tide had come in. Because if there had been anyone on the pathway outside, they'd have toppled into the mud with the shock.

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The pathway, if you can call it that, seemed to stretch forever - as, indeed, it does. Out from the coastline, where a narrow, broken brick causeway winds through eelgrass to the sea, and a second sea of warning notices about tides and mud and unexploded military nick-nacks, the Broomway winds carelessly out across the sands, an ancient trackway that used to be marked by (and therefore got its name from) the rows of broomsticks that signposted its route.

It's been called the most dangerous path in Britain, so swift are the tides and treacherous the sands. But it's also the most breathtaking, a three mile walk that takes you so far beyond the shore that it can only be walked when the tide is out. All the way out.

I hoisted my backpack onto the ground, then knelt to remove my sneakers. A friend who did this walk a few years back told me how he ended up carrying his shoes half the way, that's how wet and muddy they got, so I deliberately chose my oldest pair. I still didn't want to lose them, though, so I knotted the laces to my backpack, and wriggled my toes in the dry sand. Then checked the tide tables once again. I had three hours before it started to turn. No problem.

I said it's a breathtaking walk, and it is. If you have a large-scale map of the English east coast handy, find the rivers Thames and Crouch, and then look carefully out to sea. You'll see the Broomway there, winding its watery way from Wakering Stairs to Fisherman's Head. But whereas other public rights-of-way pass forest and field, church and village, the Broomway passes... nothing. Nothing except a vast expanse of sand, which imperceptibly fades into water.

A vast damp desert, it behaves like a desert as well. Even a ghost of mist, blotting out the coastline, can render you hopelessly disoriented, uncertain which way to walk, while the clearest of days, just sun and distant surf, leave you prey to the most remarkable mirages. I did my homework before setting out; read other walker's accounts of their experiences; and they describe seeing everything from alien cityscapes and mountains, to incoming fleets of Viking marauders.

You hear things, too, although they're not imagination. Foghorns, of course, when the mist... the locals call it a haar... rolls in. But other sounds, too. The military owns the island at the far end of the path, and occasionally test artillery out into the sea. Hence the warnings about unexploded objects littering the sands.

It was silent today, though, just a few wheeling gulls and, far off, the chugging of an engine... a tractor, maybe, or an old truck. I stepped onto the causeway and then, a few hundred yard on, onto the sand. Thankful, as I did so, for the poles that had been pushed into the mud on either side. Because it's not simply a narrow path, it's invisible too, and, on either side of it, treacherous sand and mud waits patiently for the misplaced footstep. Its victims are buried in the churchyard at the far end of the path. Some of them, anyway. Those that were found.

The first thing you notice is, you've lost all sense of perspective. Facing out towards the sea, the horizon itself is lost. It's just an eternity of white. Staring ahead, you saw how the poles were reflected in the mirror-like surface of the few inches of water that clung stubbornly to the sand, even with the tide out. And the shoreline was already a distant memory, just a dark line pocked by the odd interruption.

I looked down, to give my eyes a baffled rest. My feet were submerged; if I raised one, I'd see my toes already beginning to prune.

The sun was hot and I was thankful for the thin blouse I'd worn this morning. I unbuttoned it a little, and then a little more - there was nobody to see me, after all, and my breasts were grateful for the fresh air.

The poles were further apart now, and I was still heading east, towards the sea. I was heading, I had read, towards the Maypole, which was in fact an old telegraph pole, that marked the point where the path would begin wending northwards, but I wondered now how I would know it when I got there. The sands were littered with wooden sticks, some marking channels that had long since filled in; others, I imagined, the bones of boats that had come to grief on the sands.

But there it was, when I reached it, and I paused to look around me again. I was nowhere. In every direction, only white. Back the way I'd come, that faint sea mist had thickened enough to blot out all trace of the shore. And ahead of me, and to my left and right, nothing. I took my bearings (yes, I'd brought a compass) and marched on.

"Hey!"

A voice shattered the silence and, for a moment, I wondered whether I'd started hearing things. Then it called again and, a few yards to my right, as though coming in from the sea, another walker appeared. I fumbled to button my open blouse and smiled. "Hey."

"I saw you at the Maypole. Hope you don't mind some company for a while?"

I shook my head. To be honest, it would probably be nice to have someone to talk to. I'm all for peace and quiet but, now I came to think about it, the emptiness here was almost oppressive.

We chatted quietly... normal voices seemed somehow out of place here. About the path, about the weather, about the tricks it played on your senses. "You should try living out here," he smiled. "You really start seeing and hearing things."

He turned towards the sea and gestured towards a dark shape a couple of hundred yards away. I'd noticed it before, but put it down to another of the mirror-sand's little tricks. "The Lady of Shalotte,he said proudly; then, sensing my uncertainty, "my home. A houseboat. I'm taking her up the coast, but decided to moor here for a while."

"Is that even legal?" I asked, and he laughed, shook his head. "Probably not. But really, if any other boat comes close enough that I'm an obstruction, then it's probably already run aground." And then... "you've still got a couple of hours before the tide turns. Do you want to see her?"

I thought for a moment. I probably had another twenty minute's walk before I was back on dry land, and nothing else planned for the day. And I'd never been aboard a houseboat before. "Okay."

He took my hand. "Just follow me. Very carefully. There's another trackway here, I found it on an old map. There's a couple of deeper bits..." he gestured down at his pants, which I saw were wet up to the knees..." but nothing too bad."

He let go, and we started to walk, him striding confidently ahead, me testing every footfall before I decided to trust it. And finally we reached the houseboat, resting, he told me, on a sandbar, but more than ready for the high tide to refloat her. A little rowboat, tethered to the stern, lay behind her; a rope ladder dangled over the freshly-painted side. I followed him up; he hauled me onto the deck with strong arms, and then commenced the tour.

Which didn't take long, because she's not a big boat. But she was comfortable, lightly furnished but snug, with light streaming in through the portholes and old maritime prints on the walls. One, above the table, even showed the Lady as she was in her prime, a racing barge that won on the Medway in the 1890s. "She needed a lot of fixing up to make her seaworthy again," Ian... his name was Ian... explained, "and I'd not want to try racing her anytime. But she gets from ‘a' to ‘b' without any trouble."

Coffee was percolating; we stood in the narrow galley chatting, then took our drinks through to the other room, where an over-stuffed old sofa was the only place to sit. And you know how you know, as you spend time with someone, even just minutes with a total stranger... you know that something is about to happen? It happened. Suddenly we were kissing, locked together at the lips, while his hand pawed the breasts that I'd not quite buttoned down correctly, so the merest sweep of his fingers found the firmness of my nipple; and my hand, running down his back, found his t-shirt riding high enough that I could run back up it, fingers to flesh.

The time was ticking, the tide would be turning. All the while, that voice in my head kept reminding me not to linger too long. But lingering was no match for the longing that wrestled it, and as his finger traced lines beneath my summer skirt, and my legs opened wide without me even being aware, I knew that there's always another tide turn.

My hand was on his thigh, stroking; he shifted and a knuckle grazed his balls; he gasped, sharp, so I did it again, deliberately this time, and slowly, too. His hand was on mine, holding it still, and then guiding my palm till it was flat upon his bulge. I pressed, and felt the answering reflex; I shaped my fingers, and his thickness filled my fist. I pulled at his belt and the beast flew free. And we both paused there, Ian waiting to see what might happen; me wondering whether it should.

Tick tock.

The tide turned in an hour, and it comes in fast. Faster, I'd read, than a person can run. If I left now, I'd make it to land in good time. If I waited half an hour, I'd be cutting it fine. And if I left it any longer than that, I'd be swimming a lot of the way.

Or I could just stay where I was, and see what happened....

He felt good in my hand. Strike that. He felt great in my hand, hot and hard of course, but urgent, too, his excitement a visceral sensation that made my own heart pump as hard as his blood. Still cemented together at the lips, I felt his body shift and fall back on the sofa, and I fell with him, my body pressed against the backrest as my hand pumped his cock.

He moaned into my mouth and I broke, laughing, glancing down at my fist. He was big, but more than that, he was beautiful, his shaft rising out of my tightly-bunched fingers, the head thick and meaty... the word succulent came to mind, and then abbreviated itself. Suck. I wanted him in my mouth.

His shirt was bunched up above his nipples; I dipped my head and ran my tongue across his flesh, dampening the fine blonde hairs as I pressed down. I caught a nipple between my lips, sucked a little, and bit, then kissed down a little further.

His body shifted, hitched up a little, bringing me closer to my target; I turned my head to look into his face, but his eyes were closed, so I bit again. "I want you to watch."

I still held his cock, raising it up and straight... I thought of the Maypole, just a few hundred yards away from us; and the tide that was now coming closer. The tide, the flood, the frothing white surf... I wondered how fast I could make Ian come. Or, conversely, how slowly?

I was at his belly now, his cock towering above my face; I pressed my lips to the very base of his cock, then pushed my tongue out to explore their surroundings, the tip flickering curiously to taste his balls, then my mouth followed it round to draw one into my mouth.

I sucked, gently at first and then harder,his flavor filling my mouth, flooding my pussy. It would be easy, so easy, to wriggle out of my panties and push him inside me, to fuck him as slowly as I wanted to suck him, to feel that magnificent cock press as deep as it would go... and I would. But first....

I licked up his shaft, conscious all the while of his eyes locked onto my mouth; aware, too, of the precum that slicked his helmet - I wanted that, too, and I swirled my tongue through it, sticky and warm, the ghost of sweetness clinging to my tastebuds. And then, opening my mouth, I engulfed the head, holding him gently between my teeth, then closing my lips as tight as I could, and sucking.

Beneath me, it felt as though his whole body was frozen, every nerve end he possessed focused on that single place, on the sea of sensations that my single action produced. His precum was flooding, so much that I had to break off to swallow it, but it was only for a moment, and now I had him in my mouth again, my head sinking down as I took him deeper... deeper... deeper.

My face was buried in his abdomen, my lips at the base of his cock. If I'd been wearing lipstick, I could have left my mark... I was sorry that I wasn't, but I rubbed my mouth against him anyway, feeling him grow even harder inside me. Then up for a loud intake of breath, and then down to do it again. And all the while, his moans grew louder, sharp exhalations of breath punctuating his "oh God"s and "oh yeah"s as I worked that thick prick.

I broke to lick, and angle my head, nibbling his shaft as it lay across my mouth, then sucking as though I was love-biting a neck. Then I took him inside me again, moving faster this time, lip-fucking his cock as my finger nails dug into his hips, and his hands wrapped themselves round the back of my head, holding me in place as I moved up and down.

I sank down again and his hands followed, pressing my face into his body, welding me to his flesh with his cock at the back of my throat. I only broke when I couldn't hold my breath any longer; then went back for more... and more... and more. And I was about to go down again when he gasped out a warning - as if I didn't already know. I dipped and closed my mouth around him; he jerked between my lips, once... twice... and then thrust hard and exploded, and I just closed my eyes and let it come, a sharp splash, a seething flood, and then gentle pulses, filling my mouth, coating my tongue, a taste and feeling like nothing else on earth.

I held him as his spurting subsided, just enjoying the moment, enjoying the gentle caress of his hands in my hair. Then rose and kissed him, my tongue still coated in his come, and he accepted it so greedily that I wished I'd saved him some. Next time. A gentle swaying beneath and around us told me that the tide had arrived and the Lady was afloat; I'd not be getting off this boat until tomorrow morning, and it was good to know I had so much to look forward to before that.

Because we brewed a fresh pot, then took our drinks onto the deck, watched as the waters rose high all around us, and the pale flecks of white as the surf hit the shore. Then he turned, his hand stroking his cock back to life, and pushed me back onto the deck, sun-warmed beneath my back. Knelt to pull of my panties with his teeth, and taste my flooding cunt with his tongue. Then raised his head with a sparkle in his eye.

"I'll be back for more in a few. But first...." And that wonderful cock slipped between my legs and I felt my whole body split apart.

He fucked as good as he tasted.